


In The Concert Hall

by Radella_Hardwick



Series: Yearnings [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 19:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12894867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radella_Hardwick/pseuds/Radella_Hardwick
Summary: A young woman goes to a concert, wishing for a companion who didn't respond to her invitation





	In The Concert Hall

It was with a heavy heart that she found herself alone in the concert hall. Not truly alone, of course; she was not the orchestra’s only audience. However, she was profoundly alone. None of her numerous friends – people she counted as friends, at least – had even responded to her suggestion of attending the concert. She had shared it twice that week, on social media, and it felt like shouting into the wilderness. Admittedly, it was not the form of music that they shared but classical music was so elevating to the soul that she wanted to share that with her friends, wanted to share it with Him. Physical intimacy was so commonplace in dancers but to feel their hearts thrill to the same swells and dips of divinely arranged sound? No, that did not happen. She wondered if it happened in swing or blues, and wondered again if her fear of embarrassing herself had denied her a seemingly innocent pleasure.

 

Suddenly, her isolation is pierced! The isolation that had grown heavier with every wave exchanged by her fellow attendees is momentarily exploded, when a barely recognised face stops to remark their acquaintance and wish her enjoyment of ‘a different kind of music’. This face comes from the same vector of her life as Him and the majority of those she had, obliquely, invited.

 

In a physical sense, she is still isolated, perversely. Every other row around her is packed to bursting but the three seats to her left are deserted and the one to her right holds her bag and coat.

 

Then, the lights go down, the first chair enters she then the conductor, half the reason she is there. He delivers witticisms about the Christmas lights, soloist and the opera from which the first piece comes.

 

The Wagner began as a wall of sound, thinned out in the middle and then came to a triumphal conclusion for the brass section and cymbals.

 

As soon as the soloist took the stage, they leapt straight into the Beethoven with no further introduction from the conductor, who had previously described it as the ‘mother and father of all violin concertos’. The music kept convulsing her with paroxysms of ecstasy, electrifying every nerve ending with arousal in a way no man ever had. A part of her wondered if it was a case of finding the right person or if music tapped into a part of her that no touch could ever reach.

 

At other times, it did not feel real. An orchestral concert was not like being at a gig, where she felt the bass as her own pulse. Moreover, this was the sort of music people paid horrendous amounts to hear at the Royal Albert Hall, so how could these black-clad figures be gathered on a stage below her to play it live? Surely, she must be hearing it through headphones and imagining the images of conductor, orchestra and audience.

 

The end of the concerto was greeted with a standing ovation, predominantly for the soloist, who had been excellent. She, however, only rose to her feet to acknowledge the whole orchestra. While she, as a violinist, could appreciate the skill required to make high notes ring, rather than shriek, any soloist would be marooned without the orchestra.

 

The interval brought another exchange, a question of inspiration, from the one recognisable face in the audience and a respite from the ecstatic sensations. The effect of which were apparent from a trip to the toilet. Upon returning to the hall, she was engaged for a fuller conversation with her acquaintance and their partner. They were politely impressed by her ability to play and knowledge of the solo instrument.

 

“You cannot read braille and play at the same time. The only way you can play is to learn the piece by heart and take your cue from the breathing of the people next to you.” So spoke the flautist in explaining the work of the charity supported by that night's concert.

 

The conductor introduced the final piece, the Sibelius composition that had enticed her, with anecdotes about the composer, his wife and the country in which they lived. To her slight disappointment, he told the audience that the piece was not as intense as Sibelius’ better known works but rather depicted a fairy forest.

 

Within minutes of the actual melody beginning, she was recalling the shades of  _ A Midsummer Night's Dream,  _ who had cohabited her head for months as a teenager when she played the puckish Robin Goodfellow. A little later, the orchestra burst into a swell of music fit for a court ballroom and, again, she was transported to another scene in her mind’s eye. A scene that was soon invaded by Russian hussars. The nationality of those invading the pleasant decadence of the previous section suggested by the conductor's anecdotes.

 

The second movement started with mournful woodwinds but they were soon cut through by shrieking string instruments. She found the Sibelius more restful than the works by the two German composers, like someone had wrapped her heart in cottonwool, until the cymbals crashed in and a chase scene began.

 

It was this Sibelian symphony, this less often played work, that made her long for a companion, someone with whom she could discuss it after the concert was over. How she longed for someone to share in the rapture the final two movements provoked in her. How she longed to press through the crowds she knew would impede her progress towards the exit with Him, not attempting to speak but connected by their shining looks. However, she had to suppose that, if He were caught in that crush with her, His look would be one of patient amusement and that His commentary would be deflating.

  
She rose to her feet much more readily and with much greater conviction after the final notes ceased. She stood there, clapping her hands raw and whooping, without another thought in her head. She might wish to share the benefit of this night with another but the music was sufficient unto itself.

**Author's Note:**

> The charity is The Amber Trust  
> www.ambertrust.org


End file.
